“Then it’s true,” said Locke. “Those stories aren’t just stories. Your pet mage gives you more than just the ability to make my brain lock up like I’ve been drinking all night.”
“Yes. And it was my men who started spreading those stories, for one purpose-I wanted Barsavi’s gangs to so dread my presence that they wouldn’t dare to get close to you when the time came for you to speak to him. After all, I have the power to kill men with a touch.” The Gray King smiled. “And when you’re me, so will you.”
Locke frowned. That smile, that face…There was something damned familiar about the Gray King. Nothing immediately obvious, just a nagging sensation that Locke had been in his presence before. He cleared his throat. “That’s very thoughtful of you. And what happens when I’ve finished this task for you?”
“A parting of the ways,” said the Gray King. “You to your business, and me to my own.”
“I find that somewhat difficult to believe.”
“You’ll leave your meeting with Barsavi alive, Locke. Fear not for what happens after that; I assure you it won’t be as bad as you think. If I merely wanted to assassinate him, can you deny that I could have done it long ago?”
“You’ve killed seven of his garristas. You’ve kept him locked away on the Floating Grave for months. ‘Not as bad as I think’? He killed eight of his own Full Crowns after Tesso died. He won’t accept less than blood from you.”
“Barsavi has kept himself locked away on the Floating Grave, Locke. And as I said, you must trust me to deal with that end of the situation. The capa will acquiesce to what I have to offer him. We’ll settle the question of Camorr once and for all, to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“I grant that you’re dangerous,” said Locke, “but you must be mad.”
“Suit whatever meaning you wish to my actions, Locke, provided that you perform as required.”
“It would appear,” Locke said sourly, “that I have no choice.”
“This is no accident. Are we agreed? You’ll perform this task for me?”
“With instruction in what you wish me to say to Capa Barsavi?”
“Yes.”
“There will be one other condition.”
“Really?”
“If I’m going to do this for you,” said Locke, “I need to have a way to speak to you, or at least get a message to you, at my own will. Something may come up which can’t wait for you to prance around appearing out of nowhere.”
“It’s unlikely,” said the Gray King.
“It’s a necessity. Do you want me to be successful in this task or not?”
“Very well.” The Gray King nodded. “Falconer.”
The Falconer rose from his seat; Vestris never took her eyes from Locke’s. The hawk’s master reached inside his coat with his free hand and withdrew a candle-a tiny cylinder of white wax with an odd smear of crimson swirling through it. “Light this,” said the Bondsmage, “in a place of solitude. You must be absolutely alone. Speak my name, and I will hear and come, soon enough.”
“Thank you.” Locke took the candle with his right hand and slipped it into his own coat. “Falconer. Easy to remember, that.”
Vestris opened her beak, but made no noise. It snapped shut, and the bird blinked. A yawn? Her version of a chuckle at Locke’s expense?
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” said the Bondsmage. “Just as Vestris feels what I feel, I see what she sees.”
“That explains quite a bit,” said Locke.
“If we are agreed,” said the Gray King, “our business here is finished. I have something else to do, and it must be done tonight. Thank you, Master Thorn, for seeing reason.”
“Said the man with the crossbow to the man with the money purse.” Locke stood up and slipped his left hand into a coat pocket; the forearm was still throbbing with pain. “So when is this meeting supposed to take place?”
“Three nights hence,” said the Gray King. “No interruption at all for your Don Salvara game, I trust?”
“I don’t think you really care, but no.”
“All for the better, then. Let us return you to your own affairs.”
“You’re not going to-”
But it was too late; the Falconer had already begun to gesture with his free hand and move his lips, forming words but not quite vocalizing them. The room spun; the orange lantern light became a fading streak of color against the darkness of the room, and then there was only darkness.
6
WHEN LOCKE’S senses returned he found himself standing on the bridge between the Snare and Coin-Kisser’s Row; not a moment had passed by his own personal reckoning, but when he looked up he saw that the clouds were gone, the stars had whirled in the dark sky, and the moons were low in the west.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed. “It’s been hours! Jean’s got to be having fits.”
He thought quickly; Calo and Galdo had planned to spend the evening making their rounds in the Snare, with Bug in tow. They would probably have ended up at the Last Mistake, dicing and drinking and trying not to get thrown out for cardsharping. Jean had intended to spend the night feigning occupancy in the Broken Tower rooms, at least until Locke returned. That would be the closest place to begin hunting for them. Just then, Locke remembered that he was still dressed as Lukas Fehrwight. He slapped his forehead.
He pulled his coat and cravats off, yanked the false optics from the bridge of his nose, and stuffed them in a vest pocket. He gingerly felt the cuts on his left arm; they were deep and still painful, but the blood had crusted on them, so at least he wasn’t dripping all over the place. Gods damn the Gray King, thought Locke, and gods grant I get the chance to balance this night out in the ledger.
He ruffled his hair, unbuttoned his vest, untucked his shirt, and reached down to fold and conceal the ridiculous ribbon tongues of his shoes. His cravats and his decorative belts went into the coat, which Locke then folded up and tied by the sleeves. In the darkness, it bore an excellent resemblance to a plain old cloth sack. With the outward flourishes of Lukas Fehrwight broken down, he could at least pass without notice for a reasonably short period of time. Satisfied, he turned and began to walk quickly down the south side of the bridge, toward the still-lively lights and noises of the Snare.
Jean Tannen actually appeared from an alley and took him by the arm as he turned onto the street on the north side of the Broken Tower, where the main entrance to the Last Mistake opened onto the cobbles. “Locke! Where the hell have you been all night? Are you well?”
“Jean, gods, am I ever glad to see you! I’m far from well, as are you. Where are the others?”
“When you didn’t return,” Jean said, speaking in a low voice close to Locke’s ear, “I found them in the Last Mistake and sent them up to our rooms, with Bug. I’ve been pacing the alleys down here, trying to keep out of sight. I didn’t want us all getting scattered across the city by night. I…we feared…”
“I was taken, Jean. But then I was let go. Let’s get up to the rooms. We have a new problem, fresh from the oven and hot as hell.”
7
THEY LET the windows in their rooms stay open this time, with thin sheets of translucent mesh drawn down to keep out biting insects. The sky was turning gray, with lines of red visible just beneath the eastern windowsills, when Locke finished relating the events of the night. His listeners had shadows beneath their bleary eyes, but none showed any indication of sleepiness just then.